Holy Fuck It's October
In school news: getting a PhD is fucking hard. I find myself fantasizing about reading the Twilight books under the Christmas tree at my Mom and Jim's new house this December. That is how bad it is right now. The good news is that I'm starting to make my "reading list" which is a list of approximately 150 books I will be responsible for reading next year, otherwise known as my "reading year." Which: let's face it, who can read 150 books in a year? M suggests I buy the book "How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read" and just read that instead. Brilliant, however I am suspicious that he, currently in his reading year, has not taken his own advice. The breakdown of my reading list is three categories: history, theory, and contemporary*. My history and theory lists will be canonical but largely focused on Modernism, since Modernism is rad and I'm not really convinced that we are post- it at all. My contemporary list will be canonical (or "important" as such--think David Foster Wallace) contemporary fiction. Probably circa Lolita or Beckett novels and ending with the aforementioned Twilight series. Oh to dream.
In other news, there is no other news. I realized earlier this year that I don't have a hobby, unless you count going to yoga occasionally and being annoyed by it a hobby. I watch a lot of movies, I guess. But I don't think "watching" anything is allowed to count as a hobby, besides, I guess, bird watching because of all the hiding out in bushes and whatnot.
So I may start to cultivate a hobby. I used to play piano, quite badly, and M has a keyboard in his (past)/our (present) basement. The only problem with hanging out in the basement is that there are giant spiders. There is also a suspicious, walled-off room like something out of Poe where, I'm convinced, if we broke through the concrete and started digging, we would unearth hooker bones.**
Other than being annoyed by and watching things, I don't really have any other talents or interests. This is the main problem with making something you did that was other-than-your-job into your job.
And that's it for now. Oh, I guess I should say that I'm working on an actual website (working in my head only, for now) since I've started to send out crap for publication again and it's a hallmark of a mature, responsible writer (working on that too. Kind of.) to have something "official" out there. Any host suggestions?
*It is annoying to me that contemporary, in this context, is not a noun but an adjective and thus sits all wrong with history and theory. And thus, I am a total dork.
**This is a house we rent. If it were M's actual house, there would be no doubt in my mind about the hooker bones, but that's another tale for another time.